


Magic Cooking

by NorthoftheNorth



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 14:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16641807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthoftheNorth/pseuds/NorthoftheNorth
Summary: Mathew is quite happy with his job cooking at his and his brother's shared inn, even if his talents at a witch could, truthfully, be better used elsewhere. There's no reason for him to leave his brother, or his home. But, when a French vampire walks through his door and refuses to take "no" for an answer, what is he to do?





	Magic Cooking

**Author's Note:**

> What pairings would you like to see from this? Anything I should include? I'm all ears ;)

"One crab-apple pie coming right up for a Mr. Simmons!" Mathew shouted, or at least he tried to into the deafening room, but well, what can I say? The noise was just too much. So he looked to his brother for help. A brother that was well known for how loud he was.

And Alfred, having caught his eye, winked and stood up to holler out, at the top of his very loud lungs, "Yo, dudes, Mattie's got someone's crab pie ready! Come on up to get it, whoever you are!"

A scramble was started among the patrons that had mainly gathered around the tavern's stage, where a bard was playing a sad slow song about a mermaid. After all, it wasn't every day that a crab-apple pie was made, what with them being so hard to take care of once they were cooked and magicked up. Many were trying to get to the kitchen counter.  
Mathew shot a scowl his brother's way, he had only let one customer order the darned treat for this very reason, it was all just too much trouble. Alfred, however, was looking away and whistling, and the idiot was a bit too thick in the head anyways to realize just how much of a commotion he'd caused. He needed a good talking to one of these days.  
Mathew sighed, turned away, and started parrying the questions on when the pies had come back into stock, which was never. Ever. At least not under Mathew's watch, and with him being the only one able to make them well…too bad for everyone else.

Mr. Simmons was finally able to get to the front of the line and Mathew gratefully passed off his dessert to him, letting him take over in fending off the rabble and keeping a hold of his pie. It kept trying to walk off as soon as he set it down.

A word to the wise who are magically inclined, do not ever, ever, not even once, make any food product that is a cross between two things, especially when one of them claws, bites, or generally wants to hurt you and everyone you love or who even just happens to unluckily be around.

It's never a good idea. EVER.

Though they are good to market to a rowdy bunch, like the room around him; but, like said mentioned rowdy bunch, crab apple pies, on account of being crabs which are, of course, made out of apples are a hell of a lot of work to magic into being and then a hell of a lot of work to then take care of afterwards so that they don't rot in some godforsaken corner of the room after scurrying off away from you.

The little buggers. All of them.

He was still finding them hiding out everywhere. Under the tables, under the eaves, sometimes they would scurry out of the washing and he'd have to rewash every single flipping article of clothing all over again, and he even found them hiding in nooks and crannies he hadn't even known they had. And, this was why he didn't sell them anymore. Or, at least, tried not to. Unfortunately, their customers seemed to love them FAR TOO MUCH, and had just kept asking for them again until Mathew could no longer stand up to his brother's puppy dog eyes or the daily enquiries to when he'd been bringing them back. 

Mathew sighed, and turned back to his regular cooking. Summoning the jar of salt to his side as he turned back to his huge pot of stew bubbling over the fireplace.

And that was when a certain blond-haired Frenchman walked through the door and gave an appreciative sniff as he smelled what he then decided was going to be his meal for that night.

Considering he was a vampire, he wasn't even sure himself if it would be the stew or the delectable scent of the man he could smell had made it. Even from across a room full of smelly sailors, travellers, and the general dirty populace, whoever had made that soup had a delicious smell to him. And Francis had not had a meal in days.

**Author's Note:**

> I personally liked this idea but it wasn't looked at much before. So, meh, tell me what you guys think and if I should continue it. 
> 
> Any suggestions for a better title?
> 
> HUGS  
> North of the North


End file.
